“Hello, Claire. Something wrong?” Her tone is not friendly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I was just looking at your hair. It’s so spiky.”
Cecilia finishes rinsing off her hands and grabs a few paper towels. “So, I hear Justin has been pursuing you pretty heavily.” Her dark eyes are narrowed.
This catches me off guard. “I don’t know if I would say that. Why do you say that?” I fold my arms and face her stare.
“Come on, Claire, it’s a small office. Everyone sees it. You know he’s only twenty-five, right? And what are you, like forty?” She smirks at the implied folly of my situation.
“No, I am not forty and yes, I am aware of how old he is. What business is this of yours?”
Cecilia must have a thing for Justin. There isn’t a woman here or anywhere who doesn’t. The ladies in the cafeteria probably get flustered when serving his tuna sandwich.
“I don’t care, it just makes you look ridiculous. You should know he’s not serious. He dated Amanda and dumped her pretty quick, and she’s like half your age.”
I would like to slap her. “Cecilia, this is none of your concern, and if you’re jealous because you’re interested in Justin you should just say so.”
She walks towards the door and reaches for the handle. “Claire, I would not waste my time with Justin if I were you.” She turns to leave and pokes her head back in. “And don’t think everyone isn’t aware that you’re slandering the company and talking shit about the new books. It’s called being open-minded, Claire. Sex sells—you’re such a prude.”
I open my mouth to reply but she’s gone. She has some nerve! I wonder if Tim sees her bad attitude. She must be jealous. I don’t interact with Cecilia often, but she doesn’t look happy most of the time. She is just as prickly as her hair. Did she have a thing with Justin and she’s mad at him, and now me by association? I bet Rebecca knows.
“She’s always been a bitch, Claire. You just don’t notice.” Am I this clueless that Rebecca has known this all along and I never gave it a thought?
“So did she ever date Justin?”
We’re in Rebecca’s office, which looks like a bomb blew up and shot out paper, tissues, dirty cups, extra shoes, and what looks like a blanket in the corner?
“What are you looking at? My legs get cold in here sometimes. No, I don’t think they ever dated, but Justin is obviously on the radar for any single girl in the office. He did date Amanda. Cecilia and Amanda were good friends before that, and now they don’t speak to each other.”
“I have a date with him next Thursday and I will be damned if I let that little pixie witch stop me.” I’m not sure if I’m madder over the Justin comments or the crap about those idiot books. What the hell does she know about quality fiction? I’m pacing the floor in front of Rebecca’s desk, looking down so I don’t trip on any more bedding she may have stashed around.
“Don’t worry about her. Just go and have fun at your sister’s. All this bullshit will be here when you get back.” She grins as I turn to leave.
“Thanks, something to look forward to.”
She sticks her tongue out playfully as I close her door behind me.
I manage to miraculously make it out of the office without running into anyone, and reach the safety of my car.
As I pull into my cul-de-sac I nervously glance at the house across the street. I go inside and finish packing, and scoop up the least complicated thing in my life—little Dixie. When we get to the pet resort she will practically leap out of my arms to get to the ladies, and play time with the other little doggies. I put her in the car along with all my mismatched luggage.
I don’t travel light—I must have my own pillow. Jackie has those weird pillows that are made of some kind of molded foam. The last time I tried to sleep on one of those I almost got whiplash from smacking my head against it, trying to put a proper dent in it. It’s like laying your head on a big charcoal briquette. My pillow is from the nineties. That could be an exaggeration, but it is of the soft and mushy variety, with a well-worn crater for my head.
I would bring Dixie to Jackie’s, but she’s allergic (my mother supposedly was too, but seems to have been cured). Because of this unfortunate affliction she didn’t have much exposure to dogs as a child, and that makes her fear them. When I first got Dixie as a three pound puppy she was jumpy around her. This irrational fear goes way back. When she was little I always told her to stay calm when a dog approached and let them smell her. She said she knew why they wanted to smell her legs—“dogs think your legs are chicken.” Dixie happily goes to the pet resort so Aunt Jackie doesn’t have to worry about her nibbling on her thigh meat in the middle of the night.
As I lock the front door and make one last sweep to ensure I have everything, I steal a peek at Brandon’s house. I don’t see any sign of him. His car isn’t there, but it could be in the garage. I wish I could tell him I’m sorry again, but what’s the point? He’s right about me, and I was right about getting close to someone who I have to see all the time. Between Brandon and Justin I have no peace anywhere.
“Dixie, isn’t this why they say dogs don’t shit where they sleep? Or something like that?” She looks at me with her confused, shiny brown eyes.
No matter how the saying goes, at home and at work—I am in deep shit.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I pull into the gated complex and punch in the code Jackie gave me. I hear the intercom static crackling and my sister’s voice.
“Hey, I’m so excited you made it. I have pizza. Come on up! Oh, and park anywhere.”
Jaclyn Marie McDonald lives in McLean, VA, across from Tyson’s Corner, which is a huge conglomeration of retail space. It’s like the god of shopping opened his mouth and spit out every imaginable store, restaurant or service in creation. You could eat food from a remote Southeast Asian nation while getting your pet hedgehog groomed, and pick up a fifty dollar lotion dispenser in the shape of a banana. Of course I plan on taking full advantage of this indulgent mecca of commerce. After all, it’s girls’ weekend. We’re not going to smoke cigars or play poker.
I park and grab my bags, and head up the stairs to apartment 2A. The door flies open as I raise my hand to knock. Jackie reaches up on her tippy toes to hug me. I am wearing high heeled boots and Jackie is short. She is just barely five feet tall, making her my little sister in more than one way. Her curly black hair is framing her perfect face, and her dark blue eyes are wide and animated. Our very opposite looks always attracted stares when we were little, but I look like our mother and Jackie is 100% dad.
She’s wearing pajamas with Hello Kitty on them, so I would say we are in for the night. Since I have had a long day and it’s almost nine o’clock, I am fine with that plan.
“Come in, I’m so glad you’re here. What can I take from you? Let’s put your bags in the guest room. Do you want some wine?” She is like an excited little girl on Christmas morning.
“Sure, wine would be great. I need to get out of these boots.” I plop down on her big fluffy white couch and consider asking for white, instead of red, wine. I pry my boots off and my feet sigh with the relief of liberation.
Jackie is a smart and educated thirty-two-year old. It turns out she wasn’t just cute when she was little. There was a secret brain in that silly head. I used to drop her off at her kindergarten classroom every day the year I was in 4th grade. She had a little clear book bag with butterflies on it (mine had ladybugs). She would wave to me and I would think that it was a waste to send such a little airhead to school. Boy, was I wrong. She completed a master’s degree in school psychology at a prestigious university in Pennsylvania, only to learn in her internship that she doesn’t like kids. Or their parents. Especially their parents. She decided to go into real estate while helping a friend on an interior decorating project (yes, she’s creative too), where she met the realtor who was listing the house. She has been a natural and has been a top salesperson in her office for the past three
years. I haven’t seen her new apartment yet, but she still has her eye out for the perfect condo in DC.
Jackie’s in the kitchen pouring the wine, which I see is red. I need to watch my motor skills. “Why would you wear shoes like that to visit me? Honestly, why torture yourself when no one is even going to see you?” She hands me a half-filled glass, which I gingerly rest on the glass coffee table after taking a sip.
“I have a thing with shoes and not learning lessons, and you never know who you could meet. What if I got a flat tire and a cute guy stopped to help me?”
“You’re right. If you were wearing frumpier, more practical footwear there is no way he would be interested. Hello—only gay men care about your shoes! It’s a cruel reality. I guess we are going shoe shopping tomorrow, right?” She tucks her legs under her body and sinks into the equally stuffy powder blue side chair.
“Yes, absolutely. I will defer to your knowledge of the rat maze over there, though. Last time it seemed like we walked for ten miles and then couldn’t find the car.”
“I’m a pro now. I will draw a battle plan with a map and attack points. Food stops. Bathrooms. The works. It will be like we’re invading a small nation, but we have to pay for the stuff we take instead of conquering and pillaging.” Jackie giggles at her own joke.
I smile and say, “Hey, where’s that pizza you said you had. I’m starving!” I jump up and almost knock over the wine. I pick up my glass, slowly move to the kitchen and sit down at the table.
Jackie preheats the oven and gets out the plates and napkins. “So I hate to ask, but what’s happening on the men front?”
I take a deep breath and I begin to tell her about my recent escapades, from the old man with the hat to the bug killing freak. I tell her about Meetup and my decision to take a break from Internet dating. I chronicle the Brandon and Justin debacles, and unlike Rebecca and Jane, Jackie gets the unedited versions. Of course I am crying again.
Jackie jumps up to get the tissues. “Let’s go back in the living room and sit down. I don’t know why everyone in our family sits in the kitchen.” She starts moving pizza and wine back to the coffee table.
We head back to the sofa and suddenly I am so uncomfortable in my jeans. I go in the bedroom and change into my pajamas, which of course feature dancing wiener dogs (I do wear pajamas when visiting people). The irony in the difference between my mood and that of my sleepwear is not lost on Jackie.
“Those are hilarious. See, now this is really like a slumber party. Maybe we should stop talking about boys and do the séance part. I wonder if girls still do that. Remember when you had to lift someone with two fingers?” I smile at the childhood memories and her attempt to bring me back to a happier time.
“Jackie, I don’t know what I’m doing.” I bite my lip and blow my nose.
“You need to stop focusing on finding a man, and you clearly overanalyze everything—”
“You don’t understand what it’s like for me. If you meet a guy you could give him a child one day. It may not matter at first, but it will become important if it gets serious, and by then it could be a disaster of disappointment and loss all over again for me.” I sink deeper into the couch, wishing it would swallow me up.
“I’m sorry you can’t have a baby, but there are different ways to be a mother, or even like a mother. You have such tunnel vision on this issue. You’re torturing yourself.” Jackie leans forward in her chair and looks at me pleadingly.
“I just don’t feel like a real woman.”
“Men seem to think you are.”
“They don’t know the truth.”
“Maybe that would be a good start.”
“What?”
“Tell them the truth and let them decide for themselves if it’s a deal breaker. You can’t decide what someone wants before you even ask them. And don’t tell me they could always change their minds and men can have children forever and—”
“But that’s all true!”
“Yes, but anyone can change their mind about anything, anytime. Claire, there are no guarantees in life.”
Jackie looks at me, forlorn, waiting for my response. The wine is making me ever sleepier, and the couch is sucking the consciousness out of me while the pizza is getting cold.
“I don’t mean to be harsh, but what you’re doing is clearly making you unhappy. You’re young and beautiful. You have a good job, and family and friends who love you, even the little ankle biter. You are free to date one guy or ten guys, and you have much more to offer than babies.” Jackie takes a bite of her pizza and motions for me to do the same.
I sit up a little and run my fingers through my hair, which is now greasy and sticky from the morning’s hairstyling ritual. “I’ll think about it. You’re right, and I’m sorry I’m throwing a wet blanket on our carefree girls’ weekend. You must want to knock me out. I’m such a whining sap and you help people who are homeless, for God’s sake. I am running around saying ‘look at me, I can’t find a boyfriend’ and ‘I have a date with a hot twenty-five-year old—poor me.’ You should punch me in the head.” I roll my eyes at my own stupidity and dig into my slice.
Jackie is cracking up. “I have a lot of patience for whining and unreasonable complaints. Do you know how annoying people are when they are buying a house? They can currently live in a moldy hoarder’s den, but they will negotiate 5K lower if the new house has a dated light fixture in the foyer or they don’t like the way the toilets flush.”
“Yeah, I would not do well with those people. I need to go to bed now.” I get up and stretch like Dixie, from my tense neck down to my sore, boot weary toes.
“Our first agenda item tomorrow is a spa visit. I wasn’t sure what you would want to do. I’m getting a massage.” She looks super excited about her choice.
The mention of a massage reminds me of my Brandon/Justin fantasy, and I am wondering what activities will ever keep my mind off men. “I had one pretty recently. I’ll get my nails done instead. I need to unveil my toes soon—it’s sandal season.”
We say good night and I settle in the warm, cozy guest bedroom. The queen sleigh bed has a down comforter, which is too warm for this time of year. Luckily, Jackie layers her beds with blankets of every texture and weight. I pull up a lighter quilt, littered with tiny pastel tulips, and nestle in for a long, and hopefully dreamless, sleep.
Saturday is sunny and the mall is calling my name—“Claire, come buy pretty things and rack up more credit card debt.” That isn’t an entirely positive message, but at least it has nothing to do with men. I jump out of bed and find Jackie already dressed and making breakfast. She was always an early riser, up at six watching cartoons while I slept in.
“Good morning!” I am starting out the day on a positive note.
“Did you sleep well? That bed is pretty comfortable. Do you want pancakes?” She has a spatula in her hand and is wearing a long embroidered peasant skirt and an off the shoulder sweater. Her hair is pulled back in a silk ribbon. Jackie was born in the wrong decade or on the wrong continent. She must hate wearing suits to show houses.
“Yeah, but I’m going to take a shower first. Is that okay?”
“Of course. We still have a little time. Our appointment is at eleven.”
I leave her cutting up strawberries and head for the guest bathroom. I shower, and dress in jeans and a lightweight wine colored sweater set. Passing over the several pairs of heels I brought, I opt for ballet flats. This is the only thing Jackie and I have in common with our outfits today.
The spa is posh and indulgent, the kind where they give you elaborate aromatherapy hand massages before they polish your nails. My feet have been soaked, scrubbed, rubbed, buffed and shined. They are all ready for flip flops and hot sandals.
We settle on a trendy Asian fusion place for lunch, which to me is just fancy Chinese food (I’m like a country bumpkin in the wealthy suburbs). Jackie is even more Zen-like now that she has had her hot stone massage.
“That was phenomenal.
I should do that once a week. Your nails look pretty.” She grabs my hand to examine the perfect manicure. The deep garnet lacquer matches my sweater.
The waitress brings our water and gives us another minute with the menu, which is a bit confusing. Not as Chinese-y as I anticipated.
“So I have another idea. Don’t get mad—this is about men but a completely different approach.” I cringe and anticipate Jackie’s wrath.
She puts down her menu and sips her water, sighing audibly. “What now? You’re going to hang out at NASA and try to meet astronauts?”
“Close. I’m thinking I should go to bars wearing New York sports jerseys.”
“And this is to meet men from New York, I am presuming?” She is slowing her speech as if she is talking to a toddler or a crazy person with a weapon.
“Don’t you think that’s a good idea? Like right now—it’s baseball season. So we could buy Yankees shirts. Or one of us buys a Yankees shirt and the other Mets, just to cover all the bases. Haha, that’s a baseball pun.” I slap my leg to congratulate myself on my wit.
Jackie looks as though she wishes she had some houses to show today. “What if you meet a guy who likes you, except he’s a Red Sox fan? Now he doesn’t like you, even though you are only a fake Yankees/Mets fan? Didn’t we decide last night that honesty was the best policy?” She folds her arms and shakes her head, her bangle earrings smacking the sides of her face.
“I watched baseball with Ron and Daddy, and I know some things. I am trying to meet men from New York, not Boston!” I pause and glare at my smirking sister. “Okay, I guess New England men could be normal, too. Damn it. I never thought about repelling other men with New York fan apparel! I give up.” I start eating the crunchy noodles on the table. Where the hell is the waitress?
“I wish you would give up, at least for a little while. Why don’t you try to meet men at the dog park? Don’t you ever take Dixie?” The waitress returns and we pause to order.
There Are No Men Page 15